


i wish i knew how to break this spell

by empty_inkwell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post season 3a, Self-Esteem Issues, Snowed In, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Touch-Starved, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_inkwell/pseuds/empty_inkwell
Summary: It’s the middle of winter break, and Stiles is pretty sure he has better things to be doing than hiking through the Preserve looking for the latest monster-of-the-week. But Scott saideverybody, and when Alpha says jump…Stiles winds up tripping over roots in the woods with Peter fucking Hale.The only thing that could make this day worse? A magical blizzard.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 15
Kudos: 446





	i wish i knew how to break this spell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michicant123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michicant123/gifts).



> My gift for Michicant123. Happy Stetermas! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Set in the nebulous Post-Season 3A world where only the things I like happened.
> 
> Title taken from Frank Loesser's classic, "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Stiles is making a note. He is putting a fucking reminder in his calendar. _Never listen to Deaton again!_

When they agreed to die for the cause, he told them that the Nemeton would awaken, that Beacon Hills would earn its namesake again. He did _not_ say that the town would turn into the goddamn _Hellmouth_. The Nemeton has only been awakened for two months, and this is the sixth - the sixth! - monster that Stiles has _never heard of before_ that’s suddenly decided its driving purpose in life is to set up shop in the Beacon Hills Preserve and start stirring shit up. 

It’s the middle of winter break, that no man’s land between Christmas and New Year’s, and rightfully Stiles _should_ be at home, eating himself into a coma in front of whatever new video game he decided to try first, not being dragged out to the Preserve in the middle of the afternoon, to hunt down a restless hag-like spirit or whatever with their merry band of wolves. 

Not that he has gotten much chance to do said vegging out, anyway, what with Deaton demanding his presence in the clinic every day, to work on his control. Another thing that’s Deaton’s fault! If he’d known that dying in an ice bath in a magic ritual would take whatever ‘spark’ of belief and potential he had and turn him into the magical equivalent of a live wire, he would’ve politely said, thanks, but no thanks. I’m good, actually. 

That’s a lie. He would’ve done a lot of things much worse for his dad. He did. He died. But when Deaton said “darkness,” Stiles was kind of picturing something along the lines of the hallucinations and aggression issues Scott and Allison are dealing with, not becoming a well of magical energy. And if he did, he would’ve expected it to be cooler. More casting spells, and blasting enemies of the pack with bolts of power, and less accidentally lighting the toaster on fire because his dad surprised him in the kitchen one morning. 

Scott only got to make one _Yer a wizard, Stiles_ , joke, before Deaton was interrupting him with the clarification that actually, Stiles has become something more along the lines of a witch, with a particular affinity for the natural elements, and it’s quite serious actually, unless they would like it if Stiles accidentally caused an earthquake right on top of a confluence of powerful telluric currents? 

So now Stiles gets to go to magic lessons with Deaton, who won’t even let him learn anything cool, just has him meditate for hours because he _can’t progress until you learn basic control, Stiles_ , but sitting still and “clearing his mind” does absolutely nothing for his control, which any teacher Stiles has ever had before could have told him.

Still, he does get that finally getting the cool powers he’s always longed for is not in fact all fun and games, and he does need to knuckle down, so he always does the homework that Deaton gives him, because he is a mature and responsible near-adult, and not at all because Deaton always _knows_ when he hasn’t tried to meditate and feel his power, and levels him with a disappointed sigh that never fails to make Stiles shrivel up inside and want to disappear.

He hates failure. Accidental magic sucks.

So Stiles is pretty sure he has _better things to be doing_ than hiking through the Preserve this evening. He can’t even track, what use is he in a search? Still, Scott said _everybody_ , assigned teams and everything. And when Alpha says jump… 

Stiles winds up tripping over roots in the woods with Peter fucking Hale. 

He’s been assigned to Peter again, which, of fucking course he has, and Peter is not helping him navigate his fumbling way through the woods, because of fucking course he isn’t, he’s probably laughing at Stiles’ pain and flailing, even though Stiles must be making enough noise that whatever it is they’re looking for out here will hear them a mile off. Not that Peter probably cares if they find it. 

He’s walking slightly ahead and to the right of Stiles, boots stepping lightly in the underbrush, his long coat unruffled, his hair just slightly windswept, his cheeks not showing a hint of the red sting of the cold. He looks fucking perfect. And he’s _smirking_ at Stiles.

“You want to try to make a _little_ more noise, Stiles?” Peter asks innocently. 

Stiles glares at him. “You could’ve warned me about that fucking root.” 

Peter tuts. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Stiles. I assumed that anyone with a working brain or vision would be able to see that _giant obstacle_ and avoid it. I’ll be careful not to overestimate your intelligence in future.” 

Stiles stops brushing dirt off his pant legs and sticks his tongue out at him. Peter huffs. “Mature.” 

How does Peter always bring this out in him? Stiles knows, okay, he _knows_ he’s not suave, or smooth, or whatever. But he’s got lines. He’s got quips. But Peter makes him feel like an idiot child whenever he’s around him, makes him _act_ like one too, and it’s absolutely infuriating. 

Peter walks towards him, offering a hand to help Stiles scramble out of the underbrush and onto more solid ground. He doesn’t let go once he’s pulled Stiles towards him, holding onto his wrist and right up in Stiles’ space, his grin predatory. 

It makes Stiles’ stomach flip over. It always does. Waves of hot and cold wash over him, his breath catches in his chest, and Peter smirks like he knows it, too, which he probably does, actually, his nostrils flaring and his gaze going hungry. Fuck werewolves and fuck their stupid noses too. 

Peter croons, “If you need some _guidance_ here, Stiles you just have to say the word.” How can he make that sound so filthy? God, Peter messes with his head. The back of his neck is hot. The excitement and arousal he feels around Peter is always tinged with this edge of fear, like a roller coaster, like Peter’s fangs hovering over his wrist in a parking garage. He’s not sure if he’s scared Peter’s just fucking with him, or scared he really means it. Maybe both possibilities are a little terrifying.

But no, he can’t possibly mean it, he’s just amusing himself at Stiles’ expense, as usual. Stiles is standing here, lanky and unathletic in more layers of plaid than are strictly advisable, pale and sunken-eyed from lack of sleep, his cheeks certainly blotchy red from the cold, winded just from walking slightly up a hill. Peter is not attracted to him, he’s just attracted to the ego boost he gets from knowing the effect he has on him. 

Or if he is attracted to him, it’s just as some mild diversion, some acknowledgment that maybe Stiles could be an attractive object to be fucked.

God, screw him. “Back the fuck up, Creeper Wolf,” Stiles snarls. He yanks out of Peter’s grip, pushes past him. Wraps his flannel a little closer around his torso as the wind rises, harsh and stinging. 

Peter growls a little bit but lets him go ahead. “That’s not very nice, Stiles.”

“Go write in your journal about it,” he shoots back over his shoulder. “ _Dear Diary, today I was creepy and everyone hated me._ ” There are flurries of snow beginning to fall ahead of him. “ _Stiles hurt my feelings, and I cried all alone about it, because no one in the pack can stand me._ ”

Peter’s voice is deadly light. “Oh, it is a sad burden that I bear, it’s true. Still, it is a comfort to my cold, dead heart that I can at least be of some _use_ to Scott’s little pack of misfit monsters. After all, I would hate to stand outside the pack, _and_ not even have anything to contribute.” 

Stiles does not stop walking, some last stupid scraps of his pride telling him not to let Peter know how close he hit the mark there, even though he knows whatever chemosignals he’s giving off must tell the story loud and clear. His heart is pounding in his chest. Is it getting darker? 

He looks up. Clouds are gathering overhead, heavy. “Scott is my best friend,” he says. As rejoinders go, he knows it’s weak. 

“Oh, everyone knows that,” Peter says, “Though of course the reverse remains in question. Tell me, has Isaac taken his last name yet?” Stiles grinds his teeth. So what if Scott has been distant lately? ( _For months_ , a voice in his head whispers.) And he skipped out on their annual _Lord of the Rings_ marathon to go to the movies with Isaac, instead? Isaac is a dick, but they’re figuring out how to live together. Isaac needs support right now. ( _Isaac is_ really _Pack._ ) So what if his dad has been running endless supernatural-related calls now that he’s in the know, and Stiles has been sitting at home alone, feeling useless, unable to even stop his magic from making things _worse_?

It hasn’t been that long. This time, just last year, they were hanging out at the arcade. They’d never even heard of any of this supernatural nonsense. Scott is his brother. They’ll get through this. The snow is falling thicker every minute. He didn’t dress for this. Something about that thought rings a bell in the back of his brain. He stops walking.

“Peter,” he says, interrupting whatever venom-filled sweetness was likely about to pour out of his mouth, “is it supposed to be snowing?” 

Peter doesn’t answer immediately. The woods around them have gotten so dark. The wind is howling. Stiles shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. He looks around. In every direction, the darkness and snow make it difficult to see very far. He looks at Peter. He’s standing, head cocked, staring out at the distance, eyes burning torch blue. 

“There’s not a lot of things that can affect a local weather system like this,” he says at length. “But a striga could definitely do it.” 

Fuck. “Can you reach the pack?” Stiles asks, already taking his phone out. 

He texts Scott. _SOS think we found the hag_. He shifts from one leg to the other as he waits for a response. It’s so fucking cold. This is bad.

His phone dings. _wtf? killed striga @ lake 1hr ago_. What? 

His fingers are shaking as he texts back. _U didnt tell me?????_

_thot derek told peter. @loft now. where r u??_

Stiles’ breath is shaking in his chest. The snow hurts his cheeks. He’s so, so cold. Three more messages come in. Scott wants to know what he’s talking about. He sounds worried. He’s with Isaac and Derek, they’re on their way. 

He looks at Peter, who is also frowning down at his phone, a soft crease between his eyebrows. “It seems my nephew has forgotten to inform-” 

“I know.” His voice sounds hollow to his own ears. God, this is stupid. He needs to move on from this minor apocalypse and concentrate on the real problem: if an undead hag isn’t causing the dip in temperature, what is? 

Peter is looking at him, his gaze heavy, which is bad, because Stiles doesn’t want him to see. Peter can’t be dissecting Stiles right now. Stiles needs him to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

“Well, something is causing this,” Peter says. He’s thinking. “We don’t have enough information, or resources. We should try to get out of the Preserve. The quickest way to the main road is this way.” He points. He might as well be pointing at the sky.

“Can you navigate in this?” Peter snorts at him, raises a cocky eyebrow at him. Stiles would feel comforted, but he can see the way Peter is looking at him, his shaking limbs, his red skin. Measuring. 

Well, he’ll either make it or he won’t. He nods at Peter, and they set off. 

It’s tough going. The snow is starting to build, just a few inches but it makes the terrain treacherous. Peter is hovering right at his shoulder, tugging him this way or that, and Stiles just follows him, hunched over, trying to keep himself as together as possible. 

Peter makes him stop so he can swing his coat off and wrap it around Stiles’ shoulders without so much as a by-your-leave, rubbing roughly at Stiles’ arms, up and down. Stiles would protest this treatment, but any hint of warmth feels so good he can’t bring himself to. 

Within a minute of Peter stepping back, that warmth is stolen away again. 

The storm is not letting up, and he can sense from the tension in Peter’s shoulders that they’re not making the kind of time he would like. How wide is this storm? Is it moving? Is it stalking them?

God, if only he could make his stupid magic work. Can’t even find a magical monster in the Preserve, an end to this storm, can’t even conjure up some warmth for them. Isn’t it supposed to be elemental? Well, some fire sounds nice about now. _Useless power._ A particularly nasty blast of wind hits him. _What are you even good for but causing problems?_

A terrible thought occurs to Stiles. He flashes back to yesterday, when he was sitting alone on the couch trying not to look at the last message he sent Scott - _no prob!!! maybe sun fr rain check??_ \- and the little notification underneath that said READ 1:12 PM, and _It’s a Wonderful Life_ was playing on TV. One second, he’s sniffling into his comfort hot cocoa; the next, a literal raincloud is pouring down on his head. Explaining to his dad why the couch was soaking wet was a bitch and a half. 

The storm is moving _with them_. He stills. Peter keeps going for a second, pulling at his arm, making Stiles almost stumble. 

“Stiles?!” He has to shout to be heard over the wind. 

“It’s me.” He says. 

Peter gives him a _what the fuck are you talking about_ look.

“The storm is me!” Peter just stares blankly at him, then he blinks, shocked, looks around them. 

“You can _do this_?” He sounds half-fearful, half-angry. Stiles nods, shrugs, because, well, _apparently he can_. “Well, why the fuck doesn’t Deaton have you under lock and key?!”

“It’s never been this big before! It’s just- it’s just little things!” Peter is right up on him now, holding him by the elbow, and it’s still difficult to talk. The wind is stealing their voices, their breath. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t even realize it was me, I didn’t think I could!” 

“Well, _make it stop_!” Peter shouts in his ear.

“I can’t!” He can feel a panic attack coming on. Or hypothermia. Starting a fire in the toaster was scary and uncontrollable enough. Stiles can’t believe he can freeze _himself_ to death in his own _weather system._

“What the hell has Deaton been teaching you?!” 

“We’re _working_ on control, okay!” 

“Well, _work_ for some control now!” 

Stiles is pretty sure he’s actually angry, but it’s so hard to work up the energy for it. “We never even _talked_ about anything this big before!” Well, except for the earthquake thing, but Stiles had pretty much marked that down as an exaggeration. Not so much, huh?

Peter is shivering. Shit. He closes his eyes. Then he nods, and bends down to Stiles’ ear again. 

“We can’t go to the road: even if we _can_ make it, we’ll just bring the storm into town with us! There’s a hunting cabin; it’s closer than the road! If we get shelter we can buy enough time for you to get this under control!” 

Stiles nods against him, jerkily. He’s not sure he’s shivering anymore. Double shit. 

Peter doesn’t waste any time, hauling him off in a new direction without even separating fully. Stiles stumbles along with him, wondering if it would be faster or slower if Peter just carried him. But then, Peter would probably move a lot faster if he just left Stiles behind; escape the storm faster, too. 

If he hasn’t thought of it yet, Stiles isn’t going to be the one to bring it up. 

It seems like both an eternity and a few blinks before they’re standing in front of the cabin, Peter hauling him up the steps, through the door, and slamming it behind him. Apparently they’ve been making good enough time that even abandoned and dusty, the cabin is not quite as cold as the outside air. Stiles stands in the middle of the one room, shaking. 

There’s a fireplace, barren. Rug on the floor in front of it. Shelves. A kitchenette. A built in bed frame. He can’t process any more. What now?

 _What now_ is apparently Peter, throwing blankets in a pile on the rug - where did he get those - and then returning to Stiles, yanking off his coat and outer layers. Stiles makes a noise of protest; that coat was warm. 

“Hush, you’ll keep your virtue,” Peter says he kneels down to take Stiles’ shoes off. His socks go too, and his jeans; everything but his undershirt and boxers, which are still dry, Peter flings away before bundling Stiles into the blankets. Stiles could cry from the relief, but he’s not- quite- warm- 

Peter rubs his shoulders, his arms, briskly. “How is that? Stiles? How are you doing?” 

Stiles grips feebly at the blanket. His teeth are chattering again, which he knows objectively is probably good, but doesn’t _feel_ good. “A bit better.” His skin is prickling, all over. He can hear the storm roaring outside. 

“Now, Stiles, what did Deaton tell you, about reining in your magic?” Peter sounds very serious; his hands are clutching Stiles’ shoulders pretty hard. Stiles frowns.

“Just meditation, trying to get a feel for it. It’s instinctual, it responds to-” he fumbles the words, “It _responds to my emotional state_ , but it’s only come in short bursts before, nothing sustained like this. I don’t _understand_!” He hates that most of all, he thinks. This doesn’t feel like anything that happened before. How can he stop it if he didn’t even notice it? 

“Okay, think, Stiles- Stiles, look at me!” He forces his eyes up again. Were they closed? “Think carefully, did he say anything else? Anything at all that you can use?”

Stiles thinks. “He wanted to bring me back out to the magic tree stump-” 

“The Nemeton?” Peter clarifies, sounding edgy. Stiles nods.

“Yeah, something about it needing to pay attention to it, and repaying the balance, and it being a better place to get a feel for the edges of my powers-” 

“Because you’re drawing from it.” Stiles blinks at him. Is he? “You must, your gifts awakened in a sacrificial ritual to it, you- you made a deal with an ancient natural force, and _this is the result_.” 

Stiles hums. That makes sense. “I guess. So anyway, Deaton has brought it up a couple times, but I guess it’s never been the right time, because we haven’t gone yet on our super special field trip to the magic tree stump, maybe because of the way it makes his eye twitch every time I call it a magic tree stump, and- whoa, actually, like, _exactly_ that face, that’s the one he always makes.” 

Peter’s eye is indeed twitching. 

“You have uncontrolled bursts of magic, connected to your emotional state.” He is speaking very slowly. “And a bond with the Nemeton, a very powerful magical locus, whose reach extends along currents throughout the Preserve, the forest of which it is the warden,” Peter’s talking now like he’s explaining basic math to a first-grader, “and then you came to that Preserve, and you never _once_ thought that it could _amplify your magic?!_ ” 

Oh.

Oops. 

Stiles hadn’t even realized he hasn’t been out in the preserve since they saved his dad and Melissa and Mr. Argent. Deaton’s been keeping him pretty busy. Maybe that was on purpose. 

“You _stupid boy_ ,” Peter hisses. 

Stiles flinches. Outside, something in the air _cracks_ , a boom that echoes all around them. Something like regret spasms over Peter’s face. 

“Well,” he says. “That was unkind of me.” 

“Fair, though,” Stiles croaks, the gravity of the situation and his failure to learn anything useful from Deaton settling like a rock in his chest. 

Peter smiles, but it’s watery, wavering around the edges. “I don’t- I’m not a person who can comfort, Stiles. I’m just a burnt-out husk of a man, after all.” He says it like he’s repeating something someone else said, in a deliberately light tone of voice, exaggerated, like he’s being sarcastic, like it doesn’t matter at all. Stiles isn’t fooled. He uses that tone often enough himself. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, presses one shaking hand against Peter’s chest instead.

Peter looks down at it, and back up at his face. He lifts one hand to cup Stiles’ cheek. His hand is hot like a brand. Peter frowns. “We need to get you warmer.” 

Stiles makes a noise of agreement and presses closer to him. The warmth he can feel coming off Peter is like a siren call. Werewolf space heaters. _The best_. 

Apparently that’s not what Peter means, though, because instead of getting inside of the blankets with Stiles, he guides Stiles over to the rug, helps him lie down and piles more blankets around him, tucks a pillow under Stiles’ head, and leaves. Stiles grumbles, pulls his blanket up over his head, hopes the heat of his breath will help warm the space up. He can hear Peter moving around, several wooden thunks, the rustling of paper. It’s not until he hears the sound of a match striking that he realizes what Peter is doing. 

He shoves his head out of the blankets to watch the fire catch on the paper in the fireplace, firewood arranged neatly around it. Peter backs up quickly, breathing harshly through his nose as he shakes out the match. Stiles listens to the crackle of the fire with a kind of dull horror.

“Peter,” he says, aghast. “You don’t- I’m _fine_.” 

Peter grimaces at him. “No, you aren’t, and _no_ , you won’t be,” he says, forestalling Stiles’ next objection. “You need this. I can’t warm you up by myself.” His mouth moves for an instant after he’s done speaking, as if reaching for more words, and Stiles knows they can both feel the empty space after that would usually be filled with leering innuendo. But it doesn’t come. Peter smirks, but the line of his jaw is tense. It falls flat. 

Stiles chews on his lip. “You can’t, _Peter_ ,” he says as Peter comes around behind him, pushing him, rug and blankets and all, closer to the fire. It’s catching on the wood, now. Growing. Just being near Peter being near fire like this makes guilt churn in his gut. 

Peter shushes him. He rubs up and down Stiles’ arm again with a trembling hand, then withdraws, going to the other side of the cabin. Stiles, turned on his side to face the fire, can’t see him, but he figures he’s trying to put as much space between him and the fire as possible. Stiles won’t mention it. He knows he doesn’t like to have his weakness pointed out, either.

Stiles tries to work out a way to point out that, with the fire going, he doesn’t really need Peter here, and Peter could probably escape the storm if he’s not tugging its epicenter along with him, he could get to town, go find Deaton- 

He jumps, absolutely shocked, when Peter returns, smoothly sliding under the blankets behind him. He’s stripped down as well, pants and sweater gone. He spoons Stiles, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him back against his chest. He fiddles with the blankets for a moment, making sure they’re completely enclosed, before laying his head down on the pillow as well. 

Stiles lies stock still, rigid, heart fit to burst out of his chest. Every inch of Peter’s skin is burning against him. Peter is cradling him so gently, the soft pressure of his body around Stiles’ making him feel fluttery, like wings, like he’s flying to pieces, like he’s going to go out of his mind. 

Peter sighs, shifts, lifting up a little, his face almost against Stiles’ hairline, the back of his neck, the curve of his ear. He grips Stiles’ hand under the covers. “Shhh, little rabbit, relax, there you go.” He sweeps his thumb back and forth against the back of Stiles’ hand as the tension slowly leaks out of him.

It feels incredible. His skin is vibrating, like he can really, truly feel every inch of it, like he’s settled in it in a way he hasn’t been since he died and came back. Like he hasn’t been real until now. There’s a deep hunger roaring to life in him. It feels dangerous. He squirms. “Too hot,” he says. 

“I know it feels like that,” Peter says, “but you’re actually too cold. You’ll adjust. You need this. You’re fine.” He presses each reassurance into Stiles’ hair like a litany, but he’s shivering too, and for the first time, Stiles thinks about the bath of ice, and he thinks about chemical fire and a cold grave, and he thinks about careful distances kept, and he wonders if maybe Peter is actually feeling the exact same thing he is. 

He tells himself he hasn’t catalogued every touch he’s received in the past months, every clap on the shoulder from Scott or Deaton, every grip around the back of his neck from his dad. It’s not very convincing. 

He breathes carefully, in, out. He feels close to the edge of something. Everything. He has all day, maybe. This is better. This is worse.

“What now?” he asks. “Can we reach Scott? Derek?”

Peter hums a negative. “The phones aren’t getting service anymore. And the cold drained my battery.” 

There’s been a lot to process, but it feels like some of the fog is lifting from his brain, and the fluttery feeling is translating into an anxious panic again. “I really don’t know how to control it.”

Peter sighs. “I am aware that this will be the exact opposite of helpful, but you’re going to need to calm down.” 

Stiles glares at the fire. Yeah, it is unhelpful, and because Peter pointed it out, now he can’t even say anything about it without sounding petulant. Asshole. 

“I predict that we’ll be here awhile,” Peter says. 

Stiles kicks back at him. “Yeah, well, I predict that you’ll be an asshole.” _Weak, Stilinski._

Peter sucks in a surprised breath as Stiles’ heel connects with his shin, which transforms into laughter. He squeezes Stiles tight, nuzzles at his hair. “Oh, _there you are_ , Stiles.” His voice is thick with satisfaction. Stiles can feel a prickling all up and down his skin that he thinks might be a blush. “Feeling better? Getting warm again?”

Stiles kind of hates to give him the satisfaction. He also wants to curl up inside of that voice forever. “Yeah,” he admits. 

He should try meditation. The wind is still howling outside, though, and is it getting louder the more Stiles focuses on it, or is that a trick of the mind? Well, he supposes either way it would be a trick of the mind. 

Peter’s breath puffs against his ear, warm and slightly wet, and in the absence of any other distractions he can feel it as a shiver down the back of his neck, a _zing_ straight down to the base of his spine. All of Peter is _right there_. He shivers. 

Peter stills. 

_No_ , he thinks, desperate, _not now_. But the growing need between his legs doesn’t listen to him. 

Peter makes a rumbling noise, but doesn’t say anything. Again, Stiles feels that odd silence where Peter would normally smirk, provoke, taunt, and he knows that Peter has decided not to, decided that Stiles’ _emotional state_ is too fragile. And just like that, he’s done. The sweet relief he’s found in Peter’s arms feels like a cruel trap. It’s not real.

He flails out, pushing away from Peter. Peter makes a surprised oof as Stiles’ elbow hits his stomach. “That’s enough, I’m fine, let go, I’ll calm down, I don’t need _pity_ -”

Peter, who had been pulling back until that last, suddenly surges forward, gets his arms back around Stiles’ middle and hauls him back again. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stiles. Have you ever known me to do anything I didn’t want to do, out of the goodness of my heart?” 

Stiles scoffs. “But you _do_ act in self interest, and you need me to _calm down_. Well, newsflash, dude, manipulation doesn’t _work_ if you know it’s happening, so you might think I’m an idiot but I think I’ll be fine on my own, thanks-”

Peter sighs a very long-suffering sigh. “Not necessarily true. But that’s beside the point. Do you really think it’s some kind of hardship for me, lying here with a ridiculously pretty boy in my arms?” 

Stiles’ face _burns_. He hates hearing it. He hates that he wants so badly for it to be true. He hates that Peter knows how much he wants to hear it, that it’s the only reason he’s saying it. 

“Well, forgive me if I thought that pressing my attentions on the half-dressed hypothermic teenage boy who literally _cannot_ get away from me right now was too low, even for me. Was I wrong? Do you want me to prove to you how much of a _hardship_ this isn’t?” He rolls his hips against Stiles’ backside and holy shit, Stiles could kill him over that pun alone if his brain wasn’t melting out of his ears. Peter is at least half-hard.

He’s starting to sound breathless, too, almost as breathless as Stiles. “I do have an unfair advantage over you, after all. Would it help if I told you how _delicious_ you smell right now?” He presses his face against Stiles’ neck, his mouth hovering open over where Stiles’ pulse is jumping. Stiles arches, can’t help it, his mouth dropping open on a gasp. He pants, his chest heaving under Peter’s hand, splayed proprietarily over his stomach, his ribs. 

Stiles feels every inch of that vulnerability, feels weak with it, dizzy. 

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter says, nosing his way up along his jaw to whisper in his ear. “You don’t want to know the things I want to do to you.” 

He does and he doesn’t. He wants to roll belly up for Peter. He wants to hide where Peter can never see him again, see how much he wants.

He has to take several bracing breaths. He tries to pull off a confident, dismissive air. “That’s sex. I know I’m a teenage boy, but you really think I’m that easy?” He barrels ahead before Peter can comment on _that_ , thank you very much, “Like, oh, thank you, Peter! Now that I’ve been reassured of my ability to inspire sexual attraction, my broken control over my magical abilities is completely cured!” 

Peter laughs. It shouldn’t make Stiles warm. 

“Oh, I told you before, Stiles. _I like you_. You don’t need to believe me, but you’ll never need to fear pity from me.” He nuzzles Stiles’ hair again. “You’ll get control of your magic.”

Stiles fights him again, but this time it’s like squirming against iron bars. Peter doesn’t give a single inch, holding him in place. It knocks the breath out of him. “ _No_ , Stiles,” Peter growls, firm and unyielding as his body. “That’s enough. You know I don’t suffer fools, and my patience is not endless. So you’re going to be a _good boy_ and listen to me.” 

Stiles sucks in a shocked breath. It doesn’t feel like he gets any air at all. “You don’t know,” he pleads.

“I’ll tell you what I _know_. Scott hasn’t forgotten about you - he’s probably out looking for you right now. He’s your brother. You, him, this town, are all going through an incredible upheaval. My family stood sentinel over this land for generations, and in the space of a decade everything has been thrown into chaos. It’ll settle out. You’re bearing up under an incredible weight, and you’re doing fine. You’re keeping your head above water. You’ll work it out with Scott. You’ll work it out with your magic. Well,” he pauses thoughtfully, “if you live. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

By the end of this speech, Stiles doesn’t know if his chest is shaking with unheard laughter, or unshed tears. Peter, the realist. 

He suddenly feels fucking exhausted. He slumps in Peter’s arms, his limbs trembling. He feels Peter’s approving rumble all the way down to his toes. 

“That’s right. Get some sleep,” Peter says, settling behind him. Stiles falls asleep to the steady rhythm of Peter’s breath.

He blinks awake again to harsh daylight pouring in through the windows. The fire burnt down at some point, nothing but soot and embers in the fireplace. Stiles has migrated onto his back, and Peter is leaning over him. He smirks. “The snow stopped,” he says, smug.

Stiles wants to ask if he got any sleep, but he suspects he knows the answer: not while the fire was burning. He feels something unsteady and wobbling in his chest at the thought of it, of Peter curled around him, sentinel, overnight. Starting a fire in the fireplace. For him. 

Peter opens his mouth, but seems to falter. Stiles wonders if everything he’s feeling is written on his face, or in his pheromones. Or maybe he’s just as opaque to Peter now as Peter is to him. Maybe Peter isn’t opaque at all. He looks as unsure as Stiles feels.

They stare at each other. 

This can go one of two ways, Stiles thinks. In one, they pretend that last night never happened. That Peter just said what Stiles needed to hear. Is that what Stiles wants? To go back to dancing around each other, all sharp edges? On the other hand, he doesn’t know if he really believes the things Peter said last night. If he _can_ believe.

He looks at Peter. He can’t believe he didn’t look at him at all last night. Maybe it was easier. Peter’s hair is loose, unstyled. He has five o’clock shadow. There are hints of crow’s feet around his eyes. He’s crinkling them down at Stiles. 

Maybe he does want to hear what Peter wants to do to him. Maybe he wants to do it.

Maybe one of them needs to be brave.

His hands aren’t shaking anymore when he reaches up, tangles fingers in Peter’s hair, and pulls him down. 

Peter meets his mouth with a sigh, pressing kiss after kiss against Stiles’ lips, kisses that drip down his spine like molasses, syrupy sweet. Dragging, drugging. Stiles wants more, isn’t sure how to get it. He opens his mouth against Peter’s on a moan and Peter groans in return, pressing down, in. He gets a hand around the back of Stiles’ head and tugs on his hair, holding Stiles still, at the perfect angle for him to lick in, slick and hot. Stiles curls his toes and hangs on. 

He hears a voice outside, in the near distance. “Stiles!” Scott, calling. Searching.

Peter breaks away from Stiles’ mouth, panting. Stiles starts giggling. 

“I’m going to kill that boy one day,” Peter vows to Stiles’ shoulder.

Even with the clear evidence of the world encroaching on them again, it still feels quiet and sheltered enough for another confession. “You won’t,” Stiles says, sure. 

Peter pulls in a ragged breath.

“You’d have done it by now,” he adds, cheeky.

Peter chuckles. He sits back up, looks down at Stiles again. Stiles starts to get up, but Peter stops him, catching him by the chin, a hand around his jaw. 

“I do like you, Stiles,” he says. “Loyal, clever, _fierce_ boy.” Stiles swallows past a lump. Peter watches the movement of his throat and his eyes burn for just a second. He looks back into Stiles’ eyes, pinning him with his gaze. “If I were an Alpha, and you weren’t sitting on a wellspring of magical power that would make any other path a _tragic_ waste of your potential… I would offer you the Bite again this minute.” 

Scott is calling again, closer. He can probably see the snow. Whatever hasn’t melted yet. Stiles wonders if they left a trail of it. 

With one last swipe of his thumb over his jaw, Peter releases Stiles, standing and walking over to his clothes with absolutely no hint of self-consciousness for his boxer-clad state. _And why should he be_ , Stiles thinks, giddy. 

Stiles gets up and finds his own clothes. Peter’s coat is still with them. He hands it back to him. He goes to the door while Peter puts it on. He pauses with his hand on the door. He looks over his shoulder.

“Hey, Peter?” Peter pauses in his attempts to soothe his hair into a manageable state. Prima donna. “I like you too, you know.” 

Peter grins at him, every inch a wolf. “I know.”

Stiles grins back, helpless, and goes out the door.

The sun is warm on his face. He’ll see Peter again soon. Probably in his bedroom tonight, if he knows that creep at all. 

For now, Scott is waiting. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr @thoseillswehave!


End file.
